All Good Things
by Cyberbutterfly
Summary: Everyone wants a piece. Crowley wants some hell inspired bromance version of 'Bonnie and Clyde', Sam wants him human so they can play a twisted version of 'family' they never came close to. Everyone else will just take whatever they can get. Dean's had enough. He's DONE. And he'll make everyone understand that if it means ripping the entire world apart to do it. *Post Season Nine*
1. Burning Ring of Fire

AUTHORS NOTES: Dear god, I actually WROTE something! (First day in 2 years I've had the time) Go figure it would be a series I haven't watched since season 7. Then I heard about how this season ended and, well… 21 synopsis and last 2 episodes (actually watched those) later here I am.

All mistakes are mine- this is unbeta'd.

* * *

**I fell in to a burning ring of fire,**

**I went down, down, down**

**As the flames went higher**

**And it burns, burns, burns**

**The ring of fire, the ring of fire**

Johnny Cash

* * *

**All good things come to an end, but all bad things can continue forever.**

Geoffrey Chaucer

* * *

**THEN**

Blood was dripping out of his mouth as Sam leaned him on a concrete block trying to readjust his grip. Dean wanted to tell him to spare the effort, he knew how this ended and nothing his brother did was going to change it. There really wasn't anything left to say, he wasn't exactly fighting back against the void this time. So Dean decided to stick to his 'tried and failed' method of setting Sammy at ease; say next to nothing and hope his brother could read what the ass end of it really meant. He motioned at Sam to stop.

"I gotta say something."

Sam turned to face him, a mix of panic and anguish on his features, and that- that right there- was why Sam was never supposed to be here. It's a hell of a lot easier to forget about a cold corpse when it's not still bleeding family.

"What?"

He attempts a smile, probably fails; but he's giving that 'honesty' thing a try. Sure, both of them were loud, annoying, FUBAR to the extreme, and individually had more issues than Playboy Magazine; but they'd given 'destiny' the finger in every way for more years than rationally possible. And he's finally accepted that Sam's strong enough to pull through this. Maybe actually be _better _because of this.

"I'm proud of us."

He pats the side of Sam's head because his brothers smart enough to know that means 'proud of you'. And then drops his hand; he's died enough times to know the moments at hand, and damn if he wasn't more than ready for it to happen.

Just a shame he'd never know if Sam ever shared his sentiment.

* * *

Death sucked, hell sucked worse. It was the _long _kind of suck because minutes lasted **days **down here. And eternity felt status quo after the first hour.

But 'waking up' in hell didn't exactly come as a shock. He'd been too willing to let his ticket be punched to end up a wandering ghost, and would never be enough of an idiot to believe heaven would open its gates for someone like him.

Which was why when he woke up to stifling cold air, surrounded by and wrapped in sticky black tar (he was going to keep calling it 'tar' because there was no way he was thinking about being surrounded by reams of thick, living, _howling_ glue) all he could do was laugh. Sure it was low, slightly manic, and very feral, but considering his eternity- he figured it was the best way to start. He choked off a significant part of it when he suddenly felt someone- _something_, actually- sliding around him, watching him.

It didn't feel like a typical demon; not Crowley, not Meg, hell- not even Lucifer. This _thing_ felt personal, like it'd just been waiting for him to show up and make its day.

Whatever it was echoed his laugh right back into his head, and that was enough to jumpstart his brain on the idea that this wasn't going to be anything like the last time. Hell had a little something new planned. Then the mark started to burn and opened into a wound and the 'tar' crawled its way inside.

That was the point Dean switched to screaming.

* * *

**NOW**

Crowley stood for a moment, watching the almost cooled corpse of the eldest Winchester before sitting down on the only chair in the room. He was taking a risk- he knew that. But a larger part of him pondered the potential prize. He leaned forward and kept his voice low.

"Your brother, bless his soul, is summoning me as I speak. Make a deal, bring you back. It's exactly what I was talking about, isn't it. It's all become so… _expected_."

Truth was the status quo was getting a little tedious. Everyone insisting he play checkers when he'd just set the board for chess.

He hated checkers. Everything moving in the same pointless direction, skipping over whatever got in the way- so neat and tidy and anyone who crossed to the other side got a nice shiny crown for their trouble. Chess was always more fun and infinitely more volatile. Just one king for each side and you better damn well protect that bastard because when he went down he took the whole bloody board with him. And no matter how well you knew the other team, there was still potential for a piece to throw a curve in even the best laid plans.

Dean was a dangerous piece, but one that was wonderful at demolishing everyone's best laid plans. Crowley had always played best with the pieces that moved the most unpredictably.

"You have to believe me, when I suggested you take on the mark of Cain; I didn't know this was going to happen… Not really. I mean, I might not have told you the entire truth; but I never lied. **I never lied, Dean**. That's important; it's _fundamental_."

It was. It was as fundamental as Dean believing it; because if he was right then his prize was going to be awe inspiring, but also come with a temper and then some. That was perfectly acceptable as long as it was directed at everyone but him. He paused for a moment, reaching in and pulling out Cain's knife while continuing.

"But… There is one story about Cain that I might have _forgotten_ to tell you. Apparently he to was willing to accept death rather than becoming the killer the mark wanted him to be. So he took his own life with the blade. He died. Except- as rumour has it- the mark never quite let go. "

Crowley stroked the blade with his thumb, tested the weight of it in his hands. It didn't look like much really- until you got it in the hands of someone meant to use it.

"You can understand why I never spoke of this; why set hearts aflutter at mere speculation."

Or someone meant to be used by it.

He got up with a smile, knife held out like an offering as he walked towards Dean.

"It wasn't until you summoned me… No… It wasn't truly 'til you left that cheeseburger uneaten… That I began to let myself believe."

He placed the weapon in the boy's hand, bringing both up to rest on his chest.

"Maybe miracles do come true."

He paused a moment, staring before continuing. It was somewhat of a command, maybe a little of a plea. But it was the most honest words he'd spoken in centuries.

"Listen to me, Dean Winchester. What you're feeling right now is not death; it's life. A new kind of life… Open you eyes, Dean. **See**, what I see; **feel** what I feel."

He took a breath, held it for a moment.

"Let's go take a howl at that moon."

And when Dean's eyes opened black it was just like Christmas.

* * *

If anyone likes this enough to want it to continue- please let me know.


	2. Red Right Hand

AUTHORS NOTES: PLEASE READ LITTLE COMMENT ON BOTTOM OF CHAPTER. Has to do with a character that may seem like a continuity error but isn't.

And, Dear GOD I'd forgotten how much the Crowley in my head was a nasty manipulative bastard. No wonder I like writing him so much!

So, I actually have this entire story planned out. Who knows, this might actually be the one piece of fiction I finish writing! (Made an overview- it's very professional looking… I'm so proud ;P)

With that said… Anyone want to help on this? I DEFINITELY need a beta, but I won't say no to the idea of a willing co-writer either. Just putting the suggestion out there.

* * *

**You'll see him in your nightmares, you'll see him in your dreams  
He'll appear out of nowhere but he ain't what he seems  
You'll see him in your head, on the TV screen  
And hey buddy, I'm warning you to turn it off  
He's a ghost, he's a god, he's a man, he's a guru  
You're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan  
Designed and directed by his red right hand**

Red Right Hand by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds

* * *

Some people, morons, might believe that becoming a demon changed an individual on a fundamental level. Crowley knew better. Becoming a demon was just like getting drunk; all it really did was enhance what was already available. The things someone enjoyed, they still like- the things they hate, they still want to obliterate. The difference was there weren't any of those petty annoyances like 'social morality' and 'conscience' to get in the way.

And, really, how much of a down side could you consider that.

No, what made Dean becoming a demon so very, **very** interesting was simply who he naturally was and how he did it. Throw in an ex-hunter wielding the First Blade and all the rules went right out the nearest bloody window.

So it didn't come as a shock to him when Dean's first action upon waking up was to lunge off the bed with a growl, pin him to the wall, and press the blade up against his neck. Crowley allowed himself one beat of staring to show just how unimpressed he was before he spoke.

"Well. Wasn't that just so very… _Dramatic_ of you. Are we done, or is a round of patented Dean Winchester bitching principally required?"

Dean smiled, it was his typical smile with a lot more teeth and Crowley had to admit high numbers of people were going to learn to abhor the sight of it.

"Nah, thinking of trying something new; turning your insides into your outsides."

Crowley just scoffed as he tilted his head to look at him with distain. Oh, he didn't doubt that Dean _could_ do it, he just knew he wouldn't.

"Please. If you really wanted that we wouldn't be here having a pleasant conversation about it. It would already be done."

He slowly reached one hand up, raising a finger and using it to push the blade away from his neck. For a moment Dean simply shifted his grip on the knife and tensed his jaw; then he scowled and stepped to the left, lowering the knife to his side. Crowley side stepped the other way.

"I knew you'd warm up to me."

"**Don't** push it, Crowley."

Crowley raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Fair enough."

With that he went to doorway and reached into the hall, lifting his hand up to shoulder level and showing Dean his duffle bag packed and ready. He'd even gone through the trouble of adding a few things the newly minted demon probably wouldn't have thought of.

"Shall we?"

Dean expression was a mix of surprise and confusion for a moment before he snorted.

"Dude, I may be a black eyed bitch- but don't think for a minute that makes me an official member of the sorority. I'll still gank whatever demon ass gets in my way, and I ain't playing by anyone's rules; _especially_ hells… I'm _**done**_… So drop the friggin' bag, because there is no scenario that ends with you becoming my new BFF."

Crowley's irritation showed as he stared into Dean's black eyes while letting the raised bag slide out of his hand and drop unceremoniously to the floor.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

He waved his hand at the room and the hall behind, condescendence creeping into his voice.

"Tell me, Dean… What do you think happens next? You run over to your hunter of a brother and he takes it on _faith_ that your still you? Talk it out and trust unending waves of brotherly affections to keep him from trying to kill or exorcize you? And, of course, Castiel- angel of The Lord- and his new heavenly host are **sure** to be more than understanding now that one of two people who know the most about killing angels bats for the other team."

Sometimes you trained a pup using treats sometimes you beat some sense into it. He was well aware of what method always got through to Dean the fastest. Crowley took a step forward, his voice going lower and colder.

"Now, I'm well aware that- for all its benefits- becoming a demon doesn't raise anyone's IQ, so I'm going to speak slowly and be very clear… You're a _demon_... And when you're so called 'family' find out they will either kill you, or banish you, or trap you… **Think**, Dean. They didn't trust you when you were human, what could possibly make you think the stasis quo has changed for the better?"

He paused.

"But no, you're right. Clearly I'm overreaching. I'll just wait here while you run out and explain the situation to Sam. After all, you're brothers; there's nothing he wouldn't do to bring you back whole, right?"

He wondered if Dean was aware of the physical flinch at his words.

"Bad news time; in your little group- you're the only one who says 'family' and believes it actually means something."

He paused again; let it sink in. Let some warmth back into his voice.

"So, no…I'm not your 'bestie'- but at the moment- I'm the best you've got."

Crowley took another step forward, watching as Dean's head lowered and the black slowly faded out of his eyes. It was more telling than any words. He softened his voice.

"Think about it Dean, just a little distance while you sort things out; a chance to do what you want for once. No endless hours of hunting through books for a solution no unending quests that always scar a little more than the last; no one throwing the best of what you had to give back in your face."

Crowley walked over picked up the duffle bag again, holding it out at arms length.

"Take some time. Eventually you can call Sam or whoever you want and have it out. Just make sure you have the distance between- and the skill sets necessary- to ride out the repercussions. Learn a few of the tricks that come with those black eyes. Hell, just use this as an excuse to get some R & R."

Crowley looked him up and down, shaking his head slightly.

"God knows you could use it."

Dean turned pulled his gaze away, staring at the walls. After a moment he rubbed the bottom half of his face and then silently reached out to take the bag from Crowley's hand.

"If I'm going I'm taking a set of wheels."

Crowley raised an eyebrow and Dean tilted his head enough so he could glance at him from the corner of his eyes.

"Hey, you teleport all you want. I'm travelling the old fashion way; less chance my ass ends up in two locations because I sneezed at the wrong friggin' time."

"The Impala I presume?"

Dean shook his head.

"Naw, to easy for Sam to track and parts of it are demon proofed… The Vespa GTS good enough to get me to wherever I end up going."

Crowley paused. Dean's reasons made sense- but he'd witnessed the hunter's obsession with that car enough times to know that an almost casual dismissal of it said something. Still, some things are best left to ponder when more facts are present; and there were places to go and fires to start in the meantime.

"Right… You- go. I'm going to go have a little chat with the Moose."

Dean tensed and his eyes immediately sharpened, a bit of black filtering back in. Crowley waved a dismissive hand.

"Relax… I promise I'll play nice with brother dearest. But he _has_ been summoning me, insistently. I'd rather this little dance went down outside of a demon trap. And I'll buy you a little time to be off; let him know you're alive but gone."

He turned a questioning eye to Dean.

"I'm assuming you'll want the reason for your departure kept rather hush-hush."

When Dean shrugged, Crowley blinked and almost dropped his usually dependable poker face.

"Tell him whatever you have to… Just make sure he knows it's a 'don't call me, I'll call you' kind of situation."

Crowley hummed thoughtfully; there was more at play than just what the surface was showing. Dean paused just outside the door and turned back to Crowley. He was looking at him with an expression he'd never seen on the hunters face before.

"You don't know me as well as you think."

Crowley returned the expression with a smile.

"I know you better than most."

Dean snorted and left. Once he was out of sight, Crowley shook off any lingering doubts, whistling as he walked down the hall to find Sam. This was starting to become fun.

* * *

"Crowley… Get your ass here, now!"

"My _ass_ is here already, Darling. I just decided to skip the middle man."

Crowley watched as Sam twitched in surprise and spin around, the classic 'Winchester on a mission' look on his face. Except that it had become so 'classic' over the years it was now firmly in the camp of 'tired old routine'.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow as he placed his hands in his pockets and shrugged nonchalantly.

"It means I'm officially taking my name off the emergency contact list... This charade's become rather predictable and I have much better things to do with my time."

Crowley waited as Sam stood up with a breath. Looking at the hunter was like watching a scared little puppy that suddenly found being alone wasn't as much fun as he thought. Crowley didn't try to deny enjoying it.

"I want to make a deal. I want you to bring Dean back."

Crowley gave a condescending snort. It was high time Sam learned **exactl**_y_ where he stood in the hierarchy; and if he was the one to do it- all the better.

"Well, isn't that just _not_ in the least bit surprising… Um… No."

Sam glowered and seemed to grow a foot as he squared his shoulders while the rage flooded his face.

"Crowley I swear to god—"

And now the gloves were coming off. Sam was big, but he was small change next to what the King of Hell brought to a fight.

"**God?!** _God _is an attention deficit child with an ant farm… God left dear old Dean to rot on hell's rack until it was time to clean up _his_ mess. God left you to burn from the inside out to stop _his _mistake… God's chosen band of merry little angels has kept us all waste deep in muck for _years _because he can't be bothered… So go ahead…_ Swear_ to your god. See what good it does you."

Crowley took a step forward, letting his own rage show.

"Reality check, Sam Winchester. I am the best option you've got; but I am** not **your call boy; nor your whipping boy, errand boy, or poster boy."

He gave the hunter a smile that was all teeth.

"In fact, your place in the food chain doesn't place you much further than a whimpering dog with its tail between its legs begging for scraps… And you damn well better enjoy what you just got tossed because it's _exactly_ what you asked for."

Crowley continued to hold Sam's glare, even as the first thread of confusion flickered across the hunters face. It was almost too easy to twist the man like a pretzel. Sam swallowed hard, and some of the righteous anger seeped out; not all, but it was going to make jamming the knife so much more entertaining to watch.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Your free…You wanted Abaddon dead, Metratron out of your hair, and Dean out of the picture. You wanted out; no quest to complete no mission to follow no family interfering with your life… Well, congratulations- you've gotten everything you wished; ask nice and I might arrange the ticker-tape parade."

He half expected to hear a low hissing sound while Sam deflated like a balloon. The reality didn't quite live up, but it was still cathartic watching as the little Winchester who couldn't shrank into himself like he'd been physically beaten. He let Sam take a few gasping breaths before rocking back on his heels and acting concerned.

"Problem, Sam? Was it something I said?"

When you're a demon, there's no such thing as too low a blow.

"I didn't… That's not what… Dean knows- he's my brother."

Crowley raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"Is he? When? Convenience is as convenience does after all."

He huffed out a sarcastic laugh.

"You and I both know your sudden new found love of brotherhood and family is because it's not around to annoy you anymore. He comes back and I wager it's less then a week before it all goes back to the status quo until the next one of you dies; and that goes back to my line about everything being predictable, doesn't it… My advice… Accept the facts. Dean's gone."

Sam shook his head wildly, and Crowley inwardly sighed. It was another Winchester trade mark- stubborn streaks bordering on the psychotic.

"Just bring him back Crowley- I don't care what it costs."

It was an offer to wet the appetite of even the most stoic of demons. Fortunately, he already had a much better piece to play with.

"Oh, Darling; best mind that tongue… Those are _very_ dangerous words to utter around a man like me… All those endless possibilities; I'm practically- **tingling**."

Crowley turned and walked over to the wall, well away from any devil's trap, and leaned up against it. He shook his head.

"But when I said I wouldn't bring Dean back I meant in the sense that I_ can't_ bring him back."

Sam suddenly jerked his head up and blinked and the sudden wave of hope on the hunters face was almost laughable.

"Wait… If you can't reach him- then maybe Dean's… Wait… Is Dean in_ heaven_?"

And that really was laughable, so Crowley didn't even try to hide when it came out as a bark.

"**Seriously?!** Are we talking about the same man or are you really just that daft? Do you honestly think Dean Bloody Winchester could just stroll through those pearly gates without bringing it down around him..? Of _course _he's not in heaven… I'm saying I can't bring him back because he isn't dead."

"What!"

He wondered if a human could actually snap his own neck by whipping it fast enough. Current results said 'no'- but he was willing to commit to further testing. Sam crossed the distance and hedged into Crowley's space. Although at this point in time it was less 'Threatening Moose' and more 'Confused Bullwinkle'.

"What game are you playing, Crowley?"

Crowley blinked and raised his hands. He was playing the only kind that matter.

"No games Moose. Not tonight."

"I watched Dean die. I felt his body going cold; I laid a corpse in the bed my brother used to sleep in!"

Crowley pressed a finger to Sam's chest even has he nodded his head in the direction of the rest of the building.

"So true; and how very reverent of you… Then you went and had a drink; for an hour. One hour. Sixty minutes. Thirty six hundred seconds. Amazing what can happen in that length of time."

He stepped to the side, holding his hand out like an invitation.

"If you don't believe me, go check; and while you're at it, check his closet. Take a good. Long. Look."

Sam stared at him for a second before pushing past in a run. Crowley rocked on his heels for a moment looking at the room before turning and following in the hunter's direction. He heard the choked off call long before Sam came into view.

"Dean!"

He headed for the library and reached it in time to see Sam dash away as he called his brother. Crowley sighed wearily, and yelled out.

"He's gone, Moose… Packed his bags, grabbed his vehicle of choice, and left. That should bloody well tell you all that needs telling."

After a second, Sam slowly made his way into the room.

"And what? He just woke up, stretched his arms and thought 'I'm going on a road trip'?"

"I don't see what's so difficult to comprehend."

Sam huffed a disbelieving breath.

"Dean was dead, and even if he isn't anymore he wouldn't leave. And on that… Dean was **dead**; how exactly did he shake that off?"

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

"Now that _is_ the sixty-four million dollar question, isn't it… And I think you already know the answer; deep down, in that terrified, lonely little part of your existence that can't imagine life without your brother."

Sam paled.

"The Mark."

Crowley applauded mockingly.

"Correct; and on the first try, to… Do you want to know what's really interesting?"

Sam tilted his head, frowning. Crowley paused for a moment and planned carefully. Circumstances had stripped Sam of his mental armour, but it was still a trick to know exactly where to slip the blade; it was time to draw blood. Crowley smiled at the hunter.

"In the beginning, my money was on you."

He walked over to the almost empty bottle and poured himself a drink.

"The angry hunter who set everything in motion to get the apocalypse rolling, the one that jacked himself up on demon's blood; the one that let Lucifer free. Hell, you went soulless for over a year before anyone noticed … The potential was there, and you kept delivering. If anyone was going to set the world on fire- it was going to be Sam Winchester."

He took a sip.

"And Dean… Well, Dean was little more than a blunt instrument with daddy issues and an inability to let go. But the more you railed and screamed at the injustice of it all- the more your brother stepped up so you wouldn't have to. And somewhere along the line, the scales tipped and Dean became the one everyone was talking about. But even as Dean grew harder- he still wouldn't let go; not when there was family to protect."

He stepped closer to Sam as the hunter clenched his jaw and looked decidedly away from him.

"Then you told him he didn't have family… And, eventually, Dean decided to take you at your word. So yes; Dean did just get up and walk out of here. Without a second glance, I might add… And now he's out there with no family, a blade that kills whatever gets in his way, and absolutely nothing to lose… Good old Moose, the one person who finally managed to switch the safety off the nuclear weapon."

He raised his glass in a mocking toast.

"Even at my best, I couldn't have pulled that off… Cheers."

With that he swallowed the liquid and slid the glass along the table, turnings as if to leave and then pausing as if something had suddenly occurred to him.

"Oh, and if you have any gland plans to chase after Dean- don't... I believe the exact message he asked me to deliver was 'Don't call me, I'll call you'… Chow."

With that he did turn to leave. But not before catching a glimpse of Sam's response. The look on his face was just as satisfying as if he'd really left him to bleed out on the floor.

* * *

_If you wanna work, let's work. If you want to be brothers… Well, those are my terms._

It was just after Dean had wiped the blood off himself, changed his clothes, and took off on the bike that he realized there was one big advantage he could get behind about being a demon; the fundamental ability to not give a crap about things.

Take Sam. He remembers how much Sammy saying they weren't brothers hurt, how it carved a hole in his chest and made it impossible to breathe. He remembers the guilt over every person he couldn't save- everyone who ever died simply because they spent a little too much time in his proximity. He remembers feeling responsible for every piece of crap monster, demon, and angel that walked the earth because maybe if he'd been a little faster, held out a little longer, or been a little better he could have stopped things before they happened. But that's what it was, **memory**. Just the knowledge that he'd felt like that once upon a time.

Because now? Now that was all gone. Oh, he still cared for Sam; but it was different. For the first time in his life he could be completely objective; about _everything_. It was a straight up 'hallelujah moment' when he realized he was perfectly okay if Sam and him went there separate ways; Sam was a tough kid and could handle himself. And, well, yeah- it'd be nice to still have the friends lost over the years, but most of them went into the business eyes wide; they all did the best they could and people died. It happens. And, no, he still wouldn't just sit back and watch fuglies go to town on helpless civilians- that didn't mean he had to jump into every war just because it needed fighting. For the first time he knew he had a choice; no nagging subconscious, crippling sense of duty, or overwhelming guilt forcing his decision. Whatever action he picked, he could make that bed and lie in it, perfectly content.

And that; _that_ was fucking **awesome**.

Besides that, truth be told, the whole demon thing was turning out be rather anticlimactic. Sure, he was the 'new, improved, and guilt free' version of himself, but he was still Dean on every level that counted. He was curious to learn what exactly changed on the other levels; because that might actually prove to be a hell of a lot of fun.

Take the bar he was sitting in now. Typical dive; the sort of bar that played loud music to hide any screams, and dark stained wood and low lights to hide blood stains. Oh, and multiple exits to choose in case the authorities came barging in for one patron or another. He'd hopped from one dive like this to the next all his life, but he'd never really _seen_ those places until now.

Everyone's soul is on display, every sin out on parade. That young looking thing behind the bar … She once stabbed a guy 16 times in the chest and didn't even flinch. Course, considering what the asshole had planned for her, he figured she deserved a metal more than jail time. The balding middle age dude in the corner- married with a string of hookers on the side. That tough looking kid with the knife in the corner- worst thing he's done was jaywalking.

Now, the two asshats playing pool- they got his attention. They couldn't be more than mid-twenties but it was obvious they were already skilled predators. They arrived in the parking lot just after he did, and the Mark literally burned as soon as he'd gotten a glance. Having watched them for the last hour, he knew they'd come in with a plan… Seemed that bartender might be in need of a knife again. And well, that kinda lined up with his schedule for the night, so it was a win-win all around. So he sat there, nursed a few drinks, and waited.

He'd just started his fourth glass when the girl smiled at an older man coming to take her place and gathered her stuff from behind the counter. She chatted pleasantly as she grabbed a bag of trash and walked out the back door. Dean didn't even have to look to know the creeps were exiting there own stage left. He threw the rest of his drink back and tossed money down on the bar as he turned and left through the front door. He'd caught a glimpse of the bin sitting by an old shed around the side.

And that was something else he'd noticed; hyper awareness of his surroundings. He'd only taken a quick glance as he walked in, but if you asked he could tell you the licence plate number of every car that was here. Ask him about what people were wearing inside and he could tell you that to. It wasn't an effort- it was just things he remembered if he took has a second to recall it.

By the time he was outside the party was already underway, the girl putting up a decent struggle as one held her from behind. Dean checked the lot for witnesses and waited as the music shifted to another song; no one inside to the building was going to hear them and come searching. He got close enough and then cleared his throat. The girl immediately screamed for help through a gag, and the two males whipped around to face him. The one continued to hold her as the other drew a gun.

"Fuck off, man."

Dean smiled, and watched as the boy holding the girl glanced uncertainly from him to the other guy; he was either the more inexperienced of the two- or just had better survival instincts.

"Not happening."

He drew his Blade sheathed behind his back. He didn't think his eyes had changed yet, but the 'your seriously screwed' vibe was getting through. Suddenly the two creeps were a lot less certain of their positions and even the girl looked like she thought the attackers might be the safer option.

"Ain't going to lie- this doesn't end well for you two no matter what happens to the girl; but whether we do this quick and clean or slow and messy… That you do have a choice in."

"M-maybe we should just do what he says, 'kay Jack…"

Creep number two didn't distract 'Jack' much- but it was enough for the girl to grab the opportunity. She drove her left foot down on his shin hard and she slammed her elbow into his stomach. The kid let go with a muffled gasp and she took off like a shot. 'Jack' saw her bolt and re-aimed the gun, pulling the trigger. Dean didn't think, he just moved; and felt the bullet slammed into the right side of his collar bone. He spun slightly, but didn't drop. He heard the girl cry out and he turned to her with a chuckle.

"Had worse, Sweetheart… Give me 20 minutes with these guys before you send in the cavalry and I guarantee they never bother you again."

Her breath was hitching, and she was definitely scared of him; but she collected herself and nodded before turning and bolting out of the parking lot and around the corner. Dean glanced at his shoulder.

It wasn't as bad as he expected; mostly because he didn't have a clue what to expect. He felt the injury- knew that it had torn through muscle and bone and gone clean through. But it wasn't really pain. There was heat- his shoulder felt like the temperature had jumped 6 degrees- and a freaky sensation of flesh rapidly pulling itself together, but nothing that would drop him.

Dean took a deep breath, rotating his shoulder as he turned back to the dead men. Now even Jack was looking downright scared.

"What the fuck..?"

Dean strolled forward, and they both automatically backed away. What they didn't know was they were headed right for the sheds opening. They kept not noticing until they were pressed up against it. That's when they went to run. Dean bolted forward, driving the blade deep into Jack's leg as he grabbed the other by the throat, hoisting him off the ground. The creep in his hands couldn't scream through his grip, but Jack could; and while a lot of it seemed to be because of pain- he recognized some of that pitch was as fear.

He focused for a second and felt his eyes shift into black. He suddenly had a lot better appreciation for why demons showed them off like they did; the reaction was hysterical.

He kicked the door open and threw the first kid in before grabbing Jack's leg just above the Blade and dragging him into the shed. The other kid made to bolt and he lashed out, kicking hard at the guy's knee. The boy went down hard and Dean drove the heel of his boot into the kid's pelvis; it was an impressively loud crack. Then he turned and ripped the blade out of Jack's leg as he drove his fist into the kid's chest. He spun the weapon in his hand as he looked at them both and grinned.

"Slow and messy it is."

* * *

Abaddon was destroyed, Metatron was imprisoned, heaven was reopened, and the angel's restored; and while it still wasn't business as usual- he was confident heaven would get there. The other angels declared it a victory, a triumph worth celebration.

_That was your goal right? I mean, you draped yourself in the flag of heaven but ultimately it was all about saving one human, right? Well guess what- he's dead to._

Castiel just wanted his friend back.

He had told Hannah that all he wanted to be was an angel, but as they went about their activities and rejoiced, he found himself longing desperately to be back on earth with a glass of cheap alcohol toasting to 'ganking those evil sons of bitches and staying alive' with Sam and Dean. And maybe that was the problem. Castiel had to admit that Metratron had struck on a good point. Angel's are creatures of intent and resolve; the life of a single individual- heavenly or otherwise- should never sway an angel from the greater good.

Not only had Castiel failed as a leader and friend, it turns out he isn't really much of an angel either.

It was this line of thought that had brought him here; a miniscule piece of heaven that few angels bothered looking for. It was the personal heaven of a young autistic man where it was always a sunny summer afternoon in the garden where a red kite flew.

The bottle of Jack sitting on the rock next to him was his own addition.

"I was told I would find you here."

Castiel jerked his head up, startled, as he turned to find Azrael standing a few feet away from him. She was one of the stranger angels Castiel knows; fiercely loyal to her family and to heaven's goals, yet unflinchingly stubborn in her morality. She did not waver in her beliefs. When Michael had attempted to unleash the apocalypse she was one of the few in opposition. She wasn't a friend- in fact she was a constant outsider- but she was dependable in her own way.

"I didn't hear you approach."

The angel smiled and walked over sitting down on the rock along side him looking around.

"This is nice."

Castiel picked up the whiskey, turning it in his hands.

"It is."

She hummed thoughtfully and then took the bottle from him, swallowing a mouthful. Castiel blinked in surprise; Azrael simply raised an eyebrow at him while handing the bottle back.

"I prefer a nice bottle of Le Pin, personally."

"I'm not exactly sure how to respond to that."

She laughed softly and shook her head before going back to observing the gardens. After a pause Azrael sighed.

"His soul could not be located in heaven, I checked."

Castiel swallowed hard and took a long drink from the bottle.

"I know."

Azrael shifted, turning a little so she could fully face him. He couldn't read the expression she was wearing.

"I came here after my time of guarding Metatron was completed. He wishes to speak to you; he says it's urgent."

Castiel growled low in his throat and clenched the bottle hard enough that soon it had cracks forming throughout the glass.

"Metatron should start adjusting to not getting what he wants."

Azrael sighed and then stood, straightening her blouse before holding him with a strangely intense gaze.

"Go to see him, don't go- it's your choice Castiel… But make sure your pride isn't dictating your actions. It won't end well. It never has."

And with that she turned and left.

* * *

He wandered heaven for a while, first checking with the angels reporting with events on earth, then with the ones handling the overflow of souls entering heaven; he even spoke to Hannah, getting her opinion on what the other angels were feeling. Eventually he acknowledged that he was simply stalling for the sake of stalling and headed towards Metatron's prison. When he arrived the angel was sitting with his legs stretched out on the ledge and his back against the wall and arms crossed. Castiel felt new rage flood through him and he tensed his hands into fists.

It would be so easy to let his angel blade fly.

"The hardest thing for a writer to accept is the fact that sometimes the characters do things they don't want or expect."

Metatron turned to stare at him; there was no smugness in the angels face, but there was no hint of remorse either. It made his patronizingly casual tone even more difficult to bear. Castiel's voice came out a growl.

"Get used to disappointment."

Metatron lifted up a hand.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing… I just said it was difficult to an author to accept. We set out to write a story- complete with the highs and lows of any good narration- and we have a plan for each and every character within it."

Castiel simply gripped his fists even harder as Metatron stood and began to pace in a slow circle.

"But every once in a while we'll come across a situation and suddenly what the character is doing completely derails what was planned."

He raised a finger as he continued to pace, eyes almost distant.

"That's when you find out just how good a writer is. Does he adjust accordingly or does he strangle the story into submission?"

Metatron sighed.

"Using that microphone like you did, turning the angels against me… Gadreel. That was unexpected… You smashing the Tablet and Dean taking the Mark of Cain- that was most definitely unwanted."

"**Don't you dare!"**

Castiel stepped forward, his vision going red. His body was shaking; he just didn't know which of the warring emotions was causing it. He took a breath.

"Don't ever say his name..! Our lives- Dean's sacrifice- is not something I will allow you to disregard like mere fiction... We are **not** characters in a book, and we are most certainly not ones stuck in a tale of your creation. You told me I fail because I lack curiosity, and perhaps you're right- but what you lack is perspective, and that is the infinitely greater failure."

Metatron stood still, shoulders squared and a nameless expression on his face.

"Whether either of us failed or not is still up for debate; the story isn't finished yet, Castiel."

"_**This is. Not one. Of your. Stories!**_**"**

He was now pressed right up against the bars and the only clear thought running through is head was 'kill him'. Metatron backed as far away as his cell would allow and open his hands in a gesture of surrender; he wasn't looking Castiel in the eyes anymore. After a second the imprisoned angel swallowed hard and nodded at his hand.

"Castiel, please… Please put away your blade."

Castiel blinked and looked down at his arm- sure enough his blade was in his hand. There was the thinnest trickle of blood where his grip had caused the handle to pierce flesh. He couldn't even feel it.

_Put down the blade, Dean… Please, _

He glanced back up, struggling to grasp the memory of his promise that no more angels would die by his hands. He narrowed his eyes.

"Would you? Tell me, Metatron- would you show mercy if **I** way the one saying 'please'."

'Yes."

And that gave Castiel pause. Not because of the word, but because of the simple, open way it was spoke. But Metatron had always been good at playing with people's emotions to his own ends. He let his blade fall to the ground as he backed up until the wall was supporting his weight. He laughed bitterly even as the fight drained away.

"You've always known just what to say… It's a shame every word is a lie."

He glanced up, and the expression of haunted weariness on Metatron's face was almost believable; except for the ice deep in his eyes.

"Real life **is** a story, Castiel. One with a whole lot of chapters and no real ending… And **all** of us play our parts for better or worse. I know you want me dead. If it makes you feel better just image the possibility of watching it happen one day… But that's another chapter. In this chapter you don't have to like me, help me, or trust me… But you might just want to listen."

Metatron walked across the cell, leaning up against the bars as he continued to maintain eye contact.

"Something is coming… Something I tried to write out of the story but couldn't."

Some of the old edge returned in Metatron's expression.

"Thanks, in no small part, to certain before mentioned characters deciding they didn't want to follow the script provided."

Castiel wasn't exactly sure how he would have responded, but at that moment he was overwhelmed by a wrenching, cracking sensation. It wasn't exactly a noise, it wasn't something that was felt externally; it was if his entire being was suddenly ripped open and decompressed then reformed all at once. Castiel stumbled away from the wall gasping, glancing over where he was shocked to find Metatron reeling similarly. After a second he took in a deep breath, straightening as he looked around wildly.

"What was that?"

"Something that will have every angel reeling as much as we are."

Metatron sighed, and there was too much knowledge in that breath. Castiel whipped around and snatched up his angel blade, glowering fiercely.

"You will tell me what you know."

Metatron continued to glance at the ceiling for a moment, blinking rapidly before looking back down with another sigh.

"When you broke the Tablet you didn't just cut me off- you disrupted _everything_ that was using it as a power source… The most significant being a sealed realm specifically designed to contain a creature far older and dangerous than you could possibly imagine. That 'popping' feeling was it breaking free of it's tied to heaven. Now it will walk the earth, and I will become **least** of your problems."

Castiel felt sick. He wanted to believe that Metatron was lying, but that would serve no purpose and it was too true to his life for it to be anything but truth. Once again what he'd done in a desire to protect was going to cause even more pain and suffering. He swallowed hard even as he gripped the bars with one hand to steady his swaying body. When he finally spoke he couldn't bring himself to face Metatron, and his voice was a broken as his spirits.

"W-what..?"

He cleared his throat and forced his voice strong.

"What is it? Do you know what it is?"

Metatron stepped close to the bars, placing one hand close enough that Castiel could feel the warmth from it.

"It's the oldest thing next to God… It holds no mercy, higher purpose, no allegiances; it is chaos shaped from the foundation of original sin itself. It feeds and it grows and it never stops. It has never had a name, but it has given itself a title. You'll recognize it- you just don't know the full story behind it."

"What is it?"

Metatron paused and Castiel looked up. He was surprised to see how close the angel was to him. He was even more shocked to see complete earnestness in the eyes looking back.

"Legion… The abomination calls itself 'Legion'."

* * *

AZRAEL… Okay, so Metatron tells Castiel that Azrael was killed when the angels fell from heaven. But in episode 23 when Gadreel brings Cas to heaven through the gate he says that two of Metatron's loyalist angels guard it. The woman is called Azrael first by the young girl and then by Gadreel himself. So- I figured the lying bastard simply lied about that to.


End file.
